


Age Shall Not Wither Her

by chaletian



Category: Supernatural, Waiting For God
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:25:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaletian/pseuds/chaletian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes a teenaged Dean to England to investigate mysterious deaths in a Bournemouth retirement home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Age Shall Not Wither Her

“Dad, seriously, what are we doing here?” Dean followed his father, every so often breaking into a run to keep up with him. The two elder Winchesters had flown to London the previous day (an experience Dean had absolutely no wish to repeat; he was trying not to think about the return journey), and John had hired a car and driven them to Bournemouth which was, Dean had been informed, on the south coast of England. Dean had already decided he didn’t like England. It was grey and wet, the cars were tiny, and the roads were busy. And now, here they were, stalking up a grassy, muddy field, as night drew speedily on, with zero explanation.

“Dad!” John made a chivvying gesture with his hand.

“Put your foot on it, son. I want to be there by nightfall.”

“Be _where_?” At fourteen, Dean considered that he was pretty much Dad’s partner. Cuz, dude, John Winchester may kick ass, but he sure as heck pissed off a lot of people doing it, and he needed someone to stick by him. And Dean was his man. But that partner thing was supposed to work two ways. All John had said was that it was a job someone had sent him, which, duh. As they crested the top of the shallow incline, John nodded his head towards the clutch of buildings visible about half a mile away. They were obviously standing on the edge of their land, because there was a rusted fence and, a few feet away, a peeling wooden sign which read “Bayview Retirement Village.”

“A _retirement_ home?” Dean laughed, and jabbed his father with his elbow. “Hey, Dad, looking for somewhere nice to settle down in your old age?”

“Yeah, you’re a riot, kid,” said John unhooking his binoculars and surveying the territory. Dean carried on, enjoying the moment.

“Y’know, if it’s all been getting too hard on you, old man, me’n’Sammy, we’d look after you real good. Find somewhere cozy. Come visit you once in a while.” He stopped abruptly as John gestured for silence.

“There’s something in the trees,” John muttered, and Dean followed him as he crept stealthily along the hedge and over the fence. They had almost reached the indistinct dark mass, when a flashlight suddenly switched on and swung towards them.

“Who is it? What are you doing here?” It was the voice of an old woman. Creepy. Dean saw his father lift his arms in temporary surrender, and he followed suit.

“Oh, ma’am, I’m sorry! Me an’ my son, here, we got a little lost.”

“Hmph. Damned sight more than a little lost – there’s nothing round here for miles. Pull another… Wait a minute!” Her voice was suspicious, and Dean glanced at his father, stiffening in case they had to make a run for it. “I know that face! Good grief, that takes me back! Young Johnny Winchester, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s me.” Dean was obscurely reassured by the fact that his father seemed to be as disconcerted by this turn of events as he was.

“Well, well, well! After all this time! Oh, stop waving that torch around, Tom, you’re not sending out the bat signal.”

“Right you are, old thing,” came a second voice, and the flashlight beam dropped to their feet, so that finally John and Dean were able to see their interrogators. They were pretty old, was Dean’s summation. The man was tall and slightly spindly-legged, with that tweed stuff that English people seemed to live in, as far as he could tell from films and TV. The woman wore a black scarf around her head and was wielding a dangerous-looking cane. As it was, however, she was all smiles as she limped up to the Winchesters.

“Goodness, young Johnny! This does take me back. John Winchester, Tom, of the US Marines.” Tom saluted.

“How do you do. A marine, eh? I’ve known a few good marines in my time. Once, during my stint in the SAS, we had to swim underwater to infiltrate an enemy submarine, and I remember…”

“Put a sock in it, Tom,” said the woman rudely. “Pay no attention to him; he’s positively gaga. I daresay you don’t remember me. Diana…”

“…Trent. London Times.” John was grinning now, and Dean wondered under what possible circumstances his father could have met some ageing British spinster, her cane now tucked under one arm as she shook John’s hand.

“Well, we just call it the Times, of course, but you Yanks like to go your own way. You know, Tom, this young man saved my life once. There I was, hanging out of a helicopter, taking some nice aerial shots of the jungle, when some Vietcong bastard tried to shoot me down! If it hadn’t been for Johnny, I should probably have died right there.”

“Bad luck, old man,” said Tom, clapping John sympathetically on the shoulder, “you couldn’t have known.” In a smooth move which Dean sort of envied, Diana brought her cane down on Tom’s foot, and carried on obliviously as he hopped around in pain.

“Yes, but look here, Johnny, what are you doing at Bayview? And don’t give me that claptrap about being lost, because that’s clearly rabbits’ testicles. And who’s this?” She jabbed the cane in Dean’s direction, and he fought the urge to jump backwards.

“This is Dean, my son. This is Miss Trent, Dean. She was a photographer with the _Times_ over in ‘Nam. And we’re here because… look, it’s kinda crazy to explain, Diana, so…”

“We’ve had seven deaths here over the past couple of weeks,” said Diana abruptly, turning away and gesturing to the retirement home. “Of course, Death is a constant visitor at Bayview. You can’t turn round without tripping over him. But we’ve never had so many – and such unlikely people. Mavis Cocker went yesterday, and she did step aerobics and filled three spaces on Basil’s weekly sex rota. Nothing wrong with her!”

“We think we’ve been infiltrated!” announced Tom. He had pulled a giant black cape around himself. Dean wondered where one got a giant black cape in a retirement home. “We’re standing guard, in case whoever it is comes back.”

“You seriously think someone’s doing this?”

“Certain of it!” replied Diana passionately. “I mean, I know we’re a bunch of old crocks, and perilously close to tottering off the bough of life at any given minute, but that doesn’t mean someone should be allowed to go pushing us off it willy nilly. So we’re going to find out what’s behind this.”

John was silent for a moment. Dean could tell he was thinking about coming clean, and his gaze darted between his father and Diana.

“I think you’re right,” said John eventually. “Actually, that’s why we’re here.” Diana’s gaze sharpened.

“So there _is_ something?” John nodded.

“I got a tip about something going down round here from a friend. He asked me to look into it. I owed him one, so,” he shrugged, “here we are.”

“I see,” Diana’s tone was non-committal. “Well, since you’re here, what are you going to do?”

“Reconnoitre the…”

“Dad! Over there!” John’s head jumped up, followed the line of Dean’s finger. With a quick “Stay here, Dean”, he set off in pursuit of the fleeting grey figure. Dean rushed after him, only to find his way barred by the cane, and Diana’s fingers gripping his shoulder.

“You heard your father,” she said firmly. “Stay right where you are, young man.” Dean would have protested, but he heard two shots, and the sky lightened incrementally. A minute later, John was back.

“It was a Reaper,” he reported back.

“What, as in Grim?” asked Tom. “Diana, we’re being haunted by the Grim Reaper! I wonder what Dickie Attenborough and the boys will say?”

“Oh, shut _up_, Tom! What did you do?”

“Dissipated the spirit. But I don’t think it’s here of its own free will. Someone’s controlling it.”

“Controlling it – you mean someone’s trying to use a magical guillotine on us?”

“Well, that about sums it up. Is there any pattern to who’s being taken? Any clue as to who’s pulling the strings?”

“I asked my pal Hercule the same question only the other day,” replied Tom. “Of course, he said it was a tricky one, but essentially…”

“No, there isn’t, not that we can see. Only that we’re all here, and… Oh, for heaven’s sake. We have been quite stupid, Tom. We’ve been blinded by the frills on this one.”

“We have?”

“Of course, you old halfwit. Who is _usually_ behind all efforts to keep the front doors spinning with new occupants?” Tom dwelt on this question.

“Is the answer you are seeking,” he said finally, “the Idiot Bains?”

“Harvey Bains,” said Diana, with grim satisfaction. “Come on, Johnny, let’s go and pay a visit to the stuffed rat who exploits these premises. You can shoot him if you like. We can probably get the Residents’ Committee to build a statue of you.”

Dean trailed behind as Diana and Tom led the way down the hill towards Bayview. It was night, now, though some of the windows shone with lights.

“Not all of them, of course,” Diana pointed out breathlessly. “Harvey gets Jane to take out the light bulbs, on a rotating basis. It saves money.”

Ten minutes later saw them on the front steps of the Bayview Retirement Home. Diana opened the door and they slipped in.

“Harvey’s office is up here,” she said softly. “Come on.” They went on. At the top of the stairs, a wood panelled door faced them. Diana pushed it open with her cane. Dean kinda thought he wanted a cane.

“Come out, you pathetic apology for a man!” demanded Diana. The room seemed to be empty, but Dean thought he heard a whimper from under the desk. Diana had evidently heard it too. Her eyes narrowed, and went over to the desk, and bent over, looking the space underneath.

“Now come on out of there, Harvey,” she said, her voice sickly sweet. “We all want to have a tiny little word with you.”

“No… no, I think I’m all right down here,” said Harvey, tremulously.

“Harvey,” began Tom genially, “if you don’t come out right now, we are going to chop up the contents of your wardrobe and send the scraps to the sewing class at the community centre.” At the threat to his Armani suits, Harvey dragged himself out of the footwell, and backed up against the far wall. He was pale and sweating and looked terrified.

“I didn’t do it!” he said defensively.

“Didn’t do what, Harvey?” asked Diana kindly.

“You can’t prove it!” he carried on wildly. “It was all Jane’s idea!”

“Jane?” John jumped on the new name, but Diana waved it away.

“Paid up member of God’s local supporters’ club. She doesn’t have anything to do with this, does she, Harvey?”

“What did you do, Harvey?” asked Tom. They were pressing forward now, surrounding Harvey, and Dean had to admire their tactics.

“I-it was nothing. I thought it would be the kind thing to do.” He straightened himself up, adjusted his cuffs. “The thing you two don’t understand about running a complex business like Bayview, is that…”

“You’ve been controlling some nasty little spirit, who’s been going round Bayview bumping us off, haven’t you?” said Diana, pressing the point of her cane against Harvey’s chin. He gulped.

“No… I- that’s an over-simplification, Diana.”

“Oh, _is_ it?” She pressed harder on her cane, but Tom laid a hand on her arm.

“Steady on there, old girl!”

“Thank you, Tom,” said Harvey, with as much composure as he could conjure.

“Oh, don’t thank me, Harvey,” said Tom. “I just don’t think it would be good for Diana’s soul to kill you.”

“I haven’t got a soul, you imbecile,” interrupted Diana, but Tom ignored her.

“Which isn’t to say I don’t think someone else should. This,” he said, with a flourish towards John, who stood there, massive and unshaven and dangerous, “is the great Justice John, scourge of all evil-doers. We had him sent over from America. He’ll sort you out.” John, happy to oblige, growled. Harvey blanched. Diana looked thoughtful.

“I don’t know, Tom. Justice John is used to better sinners than a miserable little toe-rag like Harvey here. We don’t want to demean him.”

“You know, Diana, you might have a point.”

“I’m sorry!” babbled Harvey. “I won’t do it again! I promise! I didn’t mean any harm!” As if recognising the futility of that line, he fell to his knees, and put up his hands. “Oh God, please don’t kill me! I’ll be good!”

“Do you promise?” asked Tom. “Do you faithfully swear to behave yourself? You’ll stop trying to kick people out? And trying to hire loonies to run things?”

“I promise, I promise!” wailed Harvey. “Anything, I promise! Please don’t kill me! I’ve got so much to give!” Diana nodded, and pulled John to one side.

“I know it’s hard to let one go, Justice John,” she said, “but, uh, let us deal with this one.” John growled, and she patted his arm. “I know, I know. You’d like to rip his head off with your bare hands and use his blood to water the geraniums. I understand. Tell you what. If he gives us any more trouble, I’ll give you a call and you can nip over and finish the job, OK?” John scratched his stubble thoughtfully, and nodded. “There we go, then. Now, you trot off with your foul fiendish minion,” and she ruffled Dean’s hair, “and we’ll sort out Harvey.” John grinned at her and, with a hand on Dean’s shoulder, left the room.

Outside, the door firmly closed, the Winchesters looked at each other. Dean’s eyes were wide.

“That was… weird,” he said.

“No argument from me, son,” replied John. “Come on. Let’s head back to the car.” They went back down the stairs and out of the house, striking out for the field over the hill.

“She was pretty cool,” said Dean, after several minutes had passed. “Was she really there in Vietnam?”

“Sure was. She was quite the woman.” There was admiration in John’s voice, and Dean did a double-take.

“Oh, Dad, you and she… you didn’t… oh, _man_! That’s _gross_!”

“Hey, this was before I’d met your mother.”

“Yeah but… she’s _old_!”

“She wasn’t as old then. You should have seen her, Dean, dangling out of that helicopter – I’ve never seen anything like it. She was a hell of woman.” He shook his head, lost in nostalgia. Dean tried to blank the image from his mind. He was scarred for life. And he still had to get on that plane. England sucked.

THE END


End file.
